Page 35 of Grim

SlipperWeather

T he rain hasn’t stopped, and neither of us seems to care. We just lie there, limbs tangled, the storm crackling above us like it’s bearing witness.

Rue is half draped over me, her lips still parted, eyes closed, hair soaked and wild against my chest. Her body is warm despite the chill, but I can feel the edges of her shaking—small, barely there tremors from exhaustion or cold or maybe just the unraveling of whatever she’s been holding on to.

I tuck her tighter against me, shielding her from the wind. I wonder if my body provides any warmth to her. At least it can provide shelter.

My palm rests on her chest, her heart beats soft flutters now beneath my fingers. I count silently, clocking her pulse.

It’s slow, and the beats are faint.

The cold clinician in me quiets as another voice in me rises in volume. Panic whispers through me before I can stop it. Quiet, soul-deep dread that seeps into my very marrow.

She shivers again, and it pulls me back to the present.

She’s too cold. I don’t hesitate, scooping her up, soaked dress and all, and carry her down from the rooftop.

My arms begin to shake in ways they never have before.

It’s not from the weight of her. I’m a reaper.

I can lift vehicles without much effort.

No, this is from the thought of what’s to come.

What I’ll do when I no longer have the option to carry her.

Inside, I move on autopilot as I lay her on her bed. I grab a towel and fresh clothes from her dresser, and I begin to strip her out of her soaked garments. My hands move gently but efficiently.

She’s barely awake, murmuring something I can’t quite make out as I dress her in a baggy black T-shirt. It swallows her whole, hanging off her frame like a shroud.

Her eyes flutter open once, bleary and heavy-lidded.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hey,” I reply, brushing damp hair from her temple. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

Her lashes lower again, and she sighs softly, curling into the blanket like a child seeking shelter. I kneel beside her bed, hand still on her hair, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

I press a kiss to her forehead and smooth back her hair.

“ Somnus mortis frater est ,” I whisper darkly to the sleeping Rue, voice raw and hollow. “Sleep is Death’s brother. Might as well get some practice.”

Her fingers twitch, but she makes no offer of reply, just continues life’s metronome in even, slowing breaths.

I watch her sleep, hoping to absorb her quiet, but my growing feelings are yelling too loud. The ache in my hollow chest pinches, a physical sensation I’ve not known in centuries.

I sigh, the sound voicing the only thought in my head. This is going to be fucking devastating.

She’s humming this morning. Humming. Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains, casting long, sleepy rays across the kitchen floor, and there she is—padding across the tiles, singing off-key like a broken siren.

As I take in the scene before me, my eyes travel down the length of Rue’s body to the slippers on her feet.

What looks like a pair of enormous clouds consumes her small ankles.

Her feet sit inside the puffy masses of cotton that appear to be swallowing her legs slowly.

As she turns to face me, I notice the slippers are not clouds.

I am staring back at the face of two identical bunny rabbits.

“What are those?” I ask, the derision evident in my tone.

“These?” She wiggles her feet obnoxiously.

“Yes.”

“These are my hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities.”

I do not respond.

“Do you like them?”

“No.”

“I have another pair that might fit you. If you want to try them on. They’re surprisingly comfortable. Like walking on air.”

“I can do that without wearing those abominations.”

“They’re not abominations. They’re slippers, Kane.”

“Slippers,” I scoff.

“And not just any kind of indoor footwear. No, no. This is Bunny,” she says and holds up her left foot. “And Cher.” Then she shakes her right foot.

“You did not name your slippers.”

“My hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities, you mean? Yes, I did. I named them Bunny and Cher.”

Having no idea how to respond to this childish inanity, I opt for silence. Eventually, she turns back around and continues her task.

I stand in the doorway, watching as she cracks eggs into a bowl with an absent smile on her face, her hair messy and her cheeks still rosy from sleep.

“Something wrong, Grim?” she asks without looking up, her voice light, teasing. “You look like a man staring into the abyss. Again.”

“Just concerned about Fate,” I murmur absently.

She glances back at me, one brow arched. “Mine?”

I shake off my darker thoughts and return to the present. “Of those eggs actually.” I shrug, dragging a hand through my hair.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to whisking. “I make excellent eggs. ”

“Everyone says that, and most people don’t.”

She glares at me suspiciously. “It’s basically impossible to ruin scrambled eggs.”

I meet her gaze defiantly. “You seem to be well on your way.”

“Oh, really? And what exactly am I doing wrong? Eggs. Bowl. Beating. Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”

I sigh, debating if this is worth my time. If it’s worth her time. Deciding it’s never too late to learn something new, I move from the archway of the kitchen toward her as I begin to instruct, “Set the bowl down. Turn that burner off and get a new pan.”

“What? Why? This one is preheated.”

“Yes, I can see that. And you will burn the flavor right out of the yolks. Now, are you going to listen and do as you’re told? Or am I wasting my time?”

The command in my tone makes her pupils dilate, matching the black in her oversize T-shirt.

“I’m listening,” she concedes. Then she proceeds to turn off the burner, removes the first pan, and grabs another from a drawer.

“Good. Now, set the burner on the lowest heat possible. Grab some butter and place it in the center of the pan.”

She does so, and I relish watching her flit about the kitchen, enjoying the obedient little sprite side of Rue. Once she’s done that, she looks to me for further instruction, though she can’t hide the glint in her eyes.

“Now what, Chef?” she asks with deviant emphasis on the final word.

“While we wait for the pan to gently warm, we will properly whisk those eggs. Timing is critical now. Take the bowl and the fork. Press the tines to the bottom of the bowl and circle your wrist in a tight clockwise motion.”

She begins as the butter begins to soften in the pan next to her. I move behind her as she works.

“Faster, Rue. The second that butter coats the entirety of that pan, you need to pour those freshly beaten eggs into the low heat.”

Her pace picks up as the eggs begin to turn a uniform yellow color .

“Good,” I praise as she continues working, the bowl hovering over the pan while I hover over Rue.

“Like this?”

“Exactly.” The second the final solid bit of butter glistens against the pan, I command, “Keep whisking while you pour them into the pan. Now.”

The eggs make a soft sizzling sound as they come in contact with the warm metal and begin to mix with the butter and spread across the surface.

“Take that spatula and stir.”

“Stir?”

“Yes, Rue. Stir the liquid in the pan and do not stop until I say so.”

“Didn’t realize making eggs would be such a physical activity,” Rue mumbles under her breath.

“Doing things right often takes more energy than most are willing to give. Now keep stirring.” I soften my voice on my last direction, seeing some frustration begin to surface.

Rue’s shoulders relax, and she finds her rhythm with the spatula.

“That’s it. You don’t need to work hard, just don’t stop. Slow and steady.”

She continues for a minute and then admits, “This is nice actually. Kind of calming.”

“Good. Just don’t lose your focus because the timing is key now.”

“It’s all still liquid, Kane,” Rue points out.

“Good things come to those who wait, ma chère .”

Rue purrs at the pet name and shifts her focus from me back to the pan.

“Seek,” I call out to the room, “we need a plate here, friend.”

Out of the wall immediately appears our little friend, who heads straight to the cabinet. “Here you go,” he says with a noticeable hint of pride in his young voice.

“A fork too, please.”

He complies instantly. “One fork.”

“Thank you, Seek. You may go.”

“With pleasure.” He smiles and disappears back into the wall.

“It’s happening,” Rue announces with glee .

“Good. Keep stirring. You’re almost there.”

The eggs begin to solidify in the pan, turning a rich, dark yellow in the center.

“When are they done?” Rue asks.

“Keep folding and turning them until you can no longer see any liquid. And the second that happens, pull them from the pan and plate them.”

She stirs with a laser focus, eyes transfixed on the pan. I bring my arm around her shoulder and grab a pinch of salt from the jar to the right of the stove. I breathe in her intoxicating scent of vetiver and violet. I sprinkle the salt over the eggs, then move slightly away from her.

“Now?” she asks innocently.

“Now,” I confirm.

She pulls the pan from the heat, uses the spatula to plate them, and then looks at her handiwork. “Now what?”

I laugh at her confused expression. “Now, you eat, Rue. Enjoy the fruits of your labor. They are best when they’re hot. Try a bite right away.”

She takes her fork and stabs into the fluffy eggs. I watch as she brings them to her soft lips, feeling a certain amount of envy for that fork.

As her mouth wraps around the bite, the moan it elicits is instant and decadent. “Oh my, Grim. These are incredible.”

I smirk, loving the look on her face and the sound she just made. “I’m glad you like them.”

“I wish you could have some too.”

“I’d want you to practice a few more times before I deign to try your attempt at a soft scramble.”

I smile at her and move to a seat in the kitchen. She devours her plate, inhaling three eggs almost entirely before I’ve even taken a seat.

Good , I think to myself. You’re gonna need the energy.

“Maybe I’ll make some more right now. Those were incredible. I had no idea eggs could have that much flavor.”

“You can coax wonderful flavor out of many things, if you’re willing to take your time with them.

” I pause briefly, seeing if she clocks the innuendo.

I can’t be sure based on the look on her face, but we have more pressing matters to attend to, so I change topics.

“Now sit down. Take a load off your hoopity-floopity slipperdoos. I have something I need to tell you.”

“You mean hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities? Okay.” She smiles and parks her ass in a chair at the small breakfast nook in the kitchen.

My lip curls as I stare at the monstrosities on her feet. “Hippa floppa what?”

The vibration of my Tombstone Phone pulls me away, and I glance down to see a message from Big D.

Big D: Hey there, Kane. Just popping in to say how excited I am to be hosting you and your plus-one at this year’s gala. It’s going to be a scream. —Big D

A second later, he follows up with an image of his face in place of the central figure in Edvard Munch’s The Scream .

I take a deep, steadying breath so as not to scream myself.

The silence stretches. Rue fills it.

“First off, don’t look at my hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities like you’re better than them.”

“Noted,” I mumble, still staring at my phone.

“Second, what?”

“I just received an event reminder.”

“Reapers have a Calendar app?”

“No, this was a personal message from Sleep’s brother himself. Death.”

“Oh. What did he say?”

“We have to go somewhere,” I say, voice lower now.

“We?” Rue queries suspiciously. “You mean I’m actually invited somewhere?”

“Not willingly, Mayday, I assure you,” I grunt. “It’s a formal event.”

Her brows shoot up. “Formal?”

I nod. “OtherWorld masquerade. Hosted by Big D.”

“Are you telling me that Death throws … parties?”

I glance sideways, already regretting this conversation. “Big D’s Devilishly Deviant Dress-Up Dance. ”

“That sounds like the world’s worst prom theme.”

“You’re not that far off.”

“So, skip it. Call in sick or whatever.”

“You really don’t have a sense of the hierarchies in place, do you?” I bite out.

“You could have just said it was mandatory. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m trying to teach you how things will be for you in the eternal hereafter. And now, on top of that, we have to get you a dress.”

A slow, devious smile spreads across her face. “Oh! No worries on that. If it’s a ball, I have a dress.”

“You what?”

“I have a dress.”